Suzan Hackney - Tsk-Tsk: The story of a child at large

Chapter One

I WAS MADE IN COFFEE BAY . Right there on the beach, in the sand. To this day I despise coffee and adore the sea in equal measure.

My father was young and my mother even younger, a quiet, studious girl who always had her head in a book. When they realised what they had done, he went down on one knee in the kitchen. Dawn felt a brief flash of excitement shoot through her and just as quickly a sharp cold memory of him slapping her hard across the face a few weeks earlier. So she shouted, NO! far too loudly and left him there on the floor to see himself out.

Dawns parents reacted as parents do, with exaggerated horror, shock, outrage and disgust. There was shouting and screaming and crying and some very ugly things were said. When everyone had calmed down slightly and my mother was now sobbing quietly enough for my grandfather to be heard, he informed her she could either marry the boy or give the baby away. This time she did not shout, NO! stamp her feet or toss her dark curls.

I was born in Pretoria, an almost pretty city if you go there in summer, with masses of violet-blue flowers blanketing ancient jacaranda trees and pavements streets, houses, cars and schoolchildren, all covered in fallen flowers. The warm summer air is sweetly scented with their dreamy fragrance.

I, on the other hand, am born on a bitterly cold winters morning. The city looks dirty and grey, the trees are stripped of all foliage and they stand out stark and naked in the gloom.

I like to think she holds me, gazing into my face while her heart fills with love. I hope she at least feeds me before she leaves me and returns to the balmy beauty of the Transkei coast.

You know how some babies look like porcelain dolls, the exquisite hand-painted ones? Pale shades of pink and white, with oh so softly rounded curves of perfection? I most certainly dont. Im really, really tiny, I dont have even a single wisp of hair on my tennis-ball-round head, which looks unnaturally large for a baby. My eyes are too big and my mouth doesnt shut by itself so even when Im not crying, its open in a small round o of surprise. No delicious padding of plump baby fat for me; my arms and legs are as spindly as undercooked spaghetti strands. I am also severely jaundiced and an eerie yellow. On the bright side, my lungs are in absolutely fantastic condition!

The nurses feel as if I havent stopped screaming since my birth, when Nurse Hansen slapped me several times hard on my behind with her large red hand, while I was trying my best not to breathe. She has since been ostracised by the other nurses at teatime and is no longer invited for any secret ciggie breaks in the furnace room. Im allergic to cows milk and also to the milk replacement they try, and even to the sugar in the water one of them attempts in desperation. I cry and cry and cry until I pass out, exhausted. Three weeks in Ive developed a textbook-cover-worthy case of oral thrush. Its blossomed right out of my mouth and is spreading all around my lips and down my chin, a bright shiny red scaly patch. By the time my adoptive parents arrive, the nurses can hardly wait to bundle me up extra tightly and get me out the door.

Bryan and Jill Hackney live in a lovely house in Pietermaritzburg, in the quiet, tree-filled suburb of Scottsville. They drive all the way to Pretoria in their immaculate pale-green and cream two-tone Wolseley. In the back is a painstakingly packed leather suitcase, filled to the brim with enough baby clothing, bedding and paraphernalia to last three months with triplets. Packed in next to the suitcase is Mavis, sitting up as straight as a pin in a freshly laundered maids uniform with a large, sparkly clean apron tied around her waist. Everyone in the car is so excited. The entire adoption process has been gruelling and time-consuming. This day, the very one thats been prayed for, dreamed about and anticipated for years, is here at last.

There are other babies in the nursery; Im certainly not the only one in this predicament. A whole gaggle of nurses has lined up against the wall to observe the joyous proceedings. Theres enough time for Jill to scan the bassinets filled with pink and blue bundles. When her eyes land on my face, hers acquires such a look of hopeful denial that the youngest nurse actually lets a burst of laughter escape. The nurse whose dogged persistence had got me breathing, eventually picks me up and thrusts me into my mothers arms.

My new parents look down at me and my fathers eyes fill with tears. Och! he says, Arent you just too beautiful?

Hearing a male voice at last, I open my eyes and with blurry baby vision look smack bang into my mothers face instead. In that split second they focus and lock into her very soul. I go completely rigid, take a deep, deep breath and start screaming as loud as I can my dedication to practising this particular gift while other babies feed and dream has paid off. My new mother tries to recoil but she is holding me and cant get away. Everyone in the room is watching so she tries to smile bravely and to not flinch visibly as the decibels mount.

What a marvellously fabulous set of lungs our little lass has! my dad yells with genuine admiration in his voice. Ive read that this is such a good sign in one so young, he continues proudly as Jill stands there, speechless for once, all the colour gone from her face.

I scream while they sign the papers. I scream while they try to hear the endless suggestions, instructions, well-meaning advice and good wishes. I scream all the way through the hallways, down three flights of stairs; I scream as they scurry past the toilets, through the reception area, almost running now, towards the exit and then they burst right out the doors into the wide open space of a welcoming world. I stop my screaming and try to look around, almost hopefully one might say.

Mavis is still sitting in the car in the exact position shed been left in. My new mother hands me to her and my dad opens the car door and, when she is in, he carefully shuts it. The second it closes, I begin to scream. As we drive away my mother looks up and sees the nurses waving joyfully from the third-floor window. She doesnt wave back.

My mother says I cry non-stop all the way to Pietermaritzburg but I seriously doubt this. Firstly, its bloody far and I am certain I would have lost my voice four or five hours in, or passed out from sheer exhaustion. Mother tends to exaggerate and anyway, everyone survived just fine.

At first my mother wants to name me Lyndall after the little girl in the book The Story of an African Farm . Lyndall is an orphan who has an entire life of hardship made even more difficult by her stubborn and rebellious personality. Shes a precocious child, wise beyond her years but internally very conflicted. Lyndall grows up to be a feminist and then dies quite horrifically while giving birth.

Luckily for me she decides instead to name me Susan after the sensible, motherly and least courageous child in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe . This Susan goes on to become known as Queen Susan the Gentle, a beautiful and brave woman with black hair that falls almost to her feet and who has the kings of countries beyond the sea asking for her hand in marriage.